


Blame it on the alcohol

by TrickyVicky3



Category: Agent Carter (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Use of slight homophobic language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-08-09
Packaged: 2018-04-13 17:23:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4530609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrickyVicky3/pseuds/TrickyVicky3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a stupid move, letting your guard down like that, letting him see you care. You didn't even have time to register what you were doing before you found yourself kneeling next to him, hands touching his shoulders - his neck - his chest. Touching anywhere you could, everywhere you could.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame it on the alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> Okie this is my first Souson fic, also the first time I've ever written from this pov, please be kind! Feedback is beautiful!

"Sousa! Sousa!"

It was a stupid move, letting your guard down like that, letting him see you care. You didn't even have time to register what you were doing before you found yourself kneeling next to him, hands touching his shoulders - his neck - his chest. Touching anywhere you could, everywhere you could.

You were worried.

And then, when his hands found your neck, and his breathing became more ragged, harsher puffs of breath against your face, for a second - for a split second, you thought he was going to kiss you. Right there in that cinema, in front of - hah - in front of goddamn Carter.

You should be so lucky.

-

After it was over, after you watched as his body was strapped to the bed, you left. Left him in that room with Carter sitting so neatly so... So perfectly beside him, left him to wake up to her, resigning yourself to the fact he'll apologise for hurting her, but never for hurting you. You wouldn't want him too. You know how he feels about you, what he feels against you.

So you try not to let it show.

"Hey killer"

But your eyes crinkle too much at the corners, and your smirk feels more like a smile.

"Hey killer"

And Carter sees. 

She's still pissed at you for the locker-room prank, or she would be, if she could hold grudges. So you know you don't deserve it when she pats you on the arm softly as she passes, or as she smiles at you, eyes kind as she turns him down. But you accept it, because you know she's better for him, she's right for him.

\---

You don't remember the first scotch, or the fifteenth. And you definitely don't remember showing up at his doorstep, far too late at night, hammering on his door until he lets you in. You don't remember whiskey tipped kisses, sloppy from the alcohol, slipping at the corner of his mouth, the scratching of your stubble against his cheek - it's red this morning, damning evidence of what you did.

What you shouldn't have done.

He hands you a coffee, limps over to the other side of the coach, and sits next to you. You notice he didn't use his crutch, you don't comment. You don't have that right.

You want to apologise, to explain, make up some kind of excuse. "I'd had too much to drink, I was off my head".

Laugh it off, make a joke out of it, "Well I do always call you Susan".

You drink your coffee, he drinks his, you resolutely do not look at the stubble burn on his cheek, and you definitely don't feel proud. 

Okay, maybe you feel a little bit proud.

He shifts so your legs are touching, his body angles itself towards you and you wince, heart beating faster, sweat beading on your forehead. The dread at the thought of the upcoming conversation becomes suffocating. You've heard it before, during the war.

Fairy.

Wrong.

Disgusting.

So when he puts his mug down, and motions for you to do the same, you do. And when he asks about the alcohol, about Iwo Jima, and the shooting, you tell him. You tell him because you may have been a dick when he said all that stuff about his leg in the interview room, but you know the truth.

You know he understands.

So you tell him, and he listens. And after, when he asks you out for a drink. You say yes, and his smile might just be the best goddamn thing you've ever seen.

.


End file.
